Book Bugs Bitehttps://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com
“Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.” - Groucho Marx Thu, 24 May 2018 07:08:13 +0000enhourly1http://wordpress.com/https://s0.wp.com/i/buttonw-com.pngBook Bugs Bitehttps://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com
Speaker for the Dead by Orson Scott Card; A Moral Dilemmahttps://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2018/04/21/speaker-for-the-dead-by-orson-scott-card-a-moral-dilemma/
https://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2018/04/21/speaker-for-the-dead-by-orson-scott-card-a-moral-dilemma/#commentsSat, 21 Apr 2018 22:23:04 +0000http://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/?p=3137

Title: Speaker for the Dead

Author: Orson Scott Card

# of Pages: 254

In the aftermath of his terrible war, Ender Wiggin disappeared, and a powerful voice arose: the Speaker for the Dead, who told of the true story of the Bugger War.

Now long years later, a second alien race has been discovered, but again the aliens’ ways are strange and frightening…again, humans die. And it is only the Speaker for the Dead, who is also Ender Wiggin the Xenocide, who has the courage to confront the mystery… and the truth.

I first read Ender’s Game in 2011. I was (almost) fifteen years old. It was brilliant. And when I closed the book I remember thinking to myself how completely and utterly pointless life is. That feeling was overwhelming, and the memory of it has stuck with me to this day.

Afterwards, it turned out that Orson Scott Card was homophobic. Not just homophobic, but very outspoken about it, and also on the board of directors of the anti-LGBT organization “National Organization for Marriage”. It was very strange to find out that someone who was able to write in a way that affected me so deeply, to truly reach out and touch my heart, was also someone whose personal views were so different from my own. I still find it hard to comprehend how a person whose stories reflect such a deep understanding of humanity and human beings is also a person who, in my opinion, has some serious blind spots.

I found myself grappling with the contradiction, wondering how it should affect my feelings and opinions about the book I loved so much. It’s the age-old question: are an artist’s personal views ever relevant? Should they affect our choices in which art we choose to consume and how? In 2013 I tried to give a fair answer (Reading Is Not Just A Habit But A Way of Life or That Time I Told You Why I Don’t Buy Orson Scott Card Books) so I’ll leave you with that, and with the fact that Card left NOM in 2013, and that when, in 2013, people called for a boycott of the Ender’s Game film, he said “With the recent Supreme Court ruling, the gay marriage issue becomes moot. Now it will be interesting to see whether the victorious proponents of gay marriage will show tolerance toward those who disagreed with them when the issue was still in dispute.” (source) A quote, by the way, that only further exposed his deep misunderstanding, but that’s for another time.

A month ago, on a whim, I decided to re-read Ender’s Game. It was just as fantastic as the first time and I fell in love all over again. When it was over I was truly disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to visit Battle School again, and I know this sounds crazy, but every once in a while I found myself feeling like I was missing some experience and realizing it was the feeling of being in the Battle Room, which is probably the closest any piece of writing will ever get to creating the feeling of zero gravity. Card writes wonderful dialogue, his universe is extremely well thought out and and his characters easily come to life on the page; it all just feels very… real. Admittedly, the second read didn’t leave me with the same doomsday feeling, but it has been six years; things change and that’s okay.

This time around, I decided to keep going. After a quick debate about whether I should continue with the publishing order style or read according to the timeline’s chronological order, I decided to go with the former. This route allows me to follow Card’s train of thought, even his writing process (progress?). I unravel it all in the order Card chose to create it, which seems much more interesting than the technical timeline details (especially when the people themselves don’t exactly follow… time anyway).

We all know the key to happiness is to lower expectations. Speaker for the Dead didn’t require that sort of mental manipulation. I’ve already used the word “fantastic” twice, so you’re welcome to fill in the blank with some synonyms.

It goes without saying that Card’s writing abilities work their magic here as well. There were a few more bumps along the way this time, with the foreign names (and a pronunciation guide on which I implemented my usual system – I say everything out loud once, whatever sticks- sticks, the rest will probably be butchered and that’s fine), the occasional Portuguese and a bit too much religion, but when I stopped to question whether the book would be better without all of this I suddenly couldn’t imagine losing any part, even the smallest. It took a few chapters to open up and welcome new strangers in but soon Libo and Pippo, Miro and Ela were just as dear as Alai and Dink an- hell, all of Dragon Army. I dare say there’s no such thing as an extra, a background actor, in Card’s world. Every single character has been meticulously designed, with a believable personality and a consistent and stable existence, one that doesn’t deviate from their usual state in order to move the plot along. By doing so, Card manages to create the complete experience for his readers, a world they can immerse themselves in, without things seemingly out of place throwing them back into reality.

I also really enjoyed the anthropology aspect. I’m not a big fan of biology, or science in general, but the study of behavior and society fascinates me. Using fantastic dialogue and strong, detailed descriptions, Card brought me onto the researcher’s team, and I practically felt like I was part of it myself, discovering new things about an alien species, trying to piece together the story. I really enjoyed watching the characters deal with the problem of trying to study their subjects without affecting or influencing them in any way, and eventually tackling that guideline and the reasoning behind it head-on. As in many other instances in the book, it almost seemed like I was actually learning about real places and creatures, and not ones that were created by the person who created everything else too.

For those who loved Ender’s Game it’s also nice to see what Ender grew up to be. Speaker for the Dead Ender seems like the only natural continuation of Child Ender, as if it’s not Card that designed it to be this way, but the other way around, with Card only documenting something that’s out of his control.

I did have two issues with the book, both of which didn’t affect my overall opinion but did feel unnecessary. First off, at a few points I was getting close to my limit in the religion area, especially when it wasn’t really about the ideas themselves and more about the politics of which church ruled what. There were also moments where the science or the tech explanations became a bit too much and weighed down on an otherwise very reader-friendly story, including when it handled very abstract, theoretical concepts. Secondly, there were times where I felt like something was being explained to me in a way that should’ve been incorporated more naturally into the story. It happened rarely, but it when it did I could feel the rough edges.

Speaker for the Dead may be labeled as sci-fi, but the aliens, the space travel and technology, they’re all just the background to a story that’s really about relationships, family, religion, and a whole lot psychology and philosophy. There’s loss, forgiveness, the mental challenge of recognizing that the right of others’ to exist is equal to our own, however hard that may be. Just like Ender’s Game, the bottom line is friendship, compassion, learning to form bridges and overcome differences – and how valuable and important all of those things are.

Many years ago I decided to stop recommending Card’s books to people, because I could choose, myself, to enjoy his work without putting money in his pocket, but I couldn’t stop others from breaking that rule. I’ve always wondered if the value in that is worth giving up this experience, the one that leaves me speechless, inspired and profoundly touched. I’m not sure there’s an answer to that, and if there is I’m not sure I want to hear it.

Title: Why We Write About Ourselves: Twenty Memoirists on Why They Expose Themselves (and Others) in the Name of Literature

Editor: Meredith Maran

# of Pages: 254

For the many amateurs and professionals who write about themselves—bloggers, journal-keepers, aspiring essayists, and memoirists—this book offers inspiration, encouragement, and pithy, practical advice. Twenty of America’s bestselling memoirists share their innermost thoughts and hard-earned tips with veteran author Meredith Maran, revealing what drives them to tell their personal stories, and the nuts and bolts of how they do it. Speaking frankly about issues ranging from turning oneself into an authentic, compelling character to exposing hard truths, these successful authors disclose what keeps them going, what gets in their way, and what they love most—and least—about writing about themselves.

I love memoirs. Short, long; old, young; essay style or full-fledged story; it doesn’t matter. I read memoirs by people I know and memoirs by people I’ve never heard of (and probably never will again). Sometimes I’m drawn by the story they tell, sometimes I just like their way of telling it. I’m fascinated by the ability to turn a personal experience into a universal one, an experience strangers, who have never met you, want to listen to, even feel a part of. We don’t always have to escape into fiction; sometimes plain old reality already has the brilliant characters and gripping plot. (And let’s all admit it, it’s always exciting to look up these people on Facebook afterwards and see all the characters commenting on photos in real life!)

The format here is simple: a chapter per person. There’s an introduction written by Maran, a quick summary of said person’s personal life and publishing history, and then a sort of freestyle, not exactly interview yet not exactly essay section written by the memoirists themselves. There are no leading questions which gives each one the opportunity to discuss whatever they want to, although most cover the basics: how I started, why I started, what the future holds for me. Every chapter ends with a “Wisdom for Memoir Writers”.

I picked up Why We Write About Ourselves in order to understand a bit more about the genre, about how those who write it do it, and why. I recognized a few of the twenty contributors, I’d actually read only a few. I wasn’t bothered much by that since, as I said, the “who” doesn’t matter to me. If someone has a good story, it’ll be good even without a proper background check and Wikipedia review. That theory definitely proved true.

One of the interesting topics that kept repeating themselves was the approach when it came to revealing personal stories in which others involved: should you do it? How do you decide, how far do you go, how can it go wrong? This issue is covered from several points of view, ranging from avoiding it at all costs to following the truth all the way through. It’s an interesting dilemma – our stories are never only ours; we share them with those around us. If so, whose right is it to tell them?

If there’s one thing everyone agreed on it’s that if you feel comfortable, you’re not doing it right. Whether you write because it’s therapeutic or painful or because there’s some inner power pushing you to do it, the real stories lie right beyond that point you usually stop at when you’re sitting around with friends and talking about the good ol’ days. Writing memoir requires being able to dig deep, and digging deep requires shattering the surface.

And yet, the real reason I was disappointed with the book, despite the solid, interesting and diverse choice of contributors, was that I was expecting it to be written in the same style that cause me to want to read it in the first place. There was something slightly… staged in the way everything was presented. The beauty in memoirs, for me, is the ability to turn everything into a story, without dividing it up into questions and answers, theories and conclusions. It’s art. Why We Write About Ourselves is not art. It’s not exactly an interview either because in some ways the stories still manage to break through – these are memoirists writing, after all – but it definitely has a more formal feel to it, which wasn’t what I was expecting nor what I was looking forward to.

All in all, I think Why We Write About Ourselves is a well written behind-the-scenes peek into the world behind memoirs. It was smart, even entertaining at times, and definitely made me add a few books to my TBR list. It tackled good, challenging questions and offered up a mix of thought provoking opinions and answers. If only it went about it in the way memoirs do.

]]>https://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2018/04/07/why-we-write-about-ourselves-edited-by-meredith-maran/feed/0hadasnWhy We Write About Ourselves: Twenty Memoirists on Why They Expose Themselves (and Others) in the Name of LiteratureNine Inches: Stories by Tom Perrottahttps://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2018/01/20/nine-inches-stories-by-tom-perrotta/
https://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2018/01/20/nine-inches-stories-by-tom-perrotta/#respondSat, 20 Jan 2018 22:07:44 +0000http://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/?p=3120

Title: Nine Inches: Stories

Author: Tom Perrotta

# of Pages: 246

Nine Inches, Tom Perrotta’s first true collection, features ten stories—some sharp and funny, some mordant and surprising, and a few intense and disturbing. Whether he’s dropping into the lives of two teachers—and their love lost and found—in “Nine Inches”, documenting the unraveling of a dad at a Little League game in “The Smile on Happy Chang’s Face”, or gently marking the points of connection between an old woman and a benched high school football player in “Senior Season”, Perrotta writes with a sure sense of his characters and their secret longings.

Nine Inches contains an elegant collection of short fiction: stories that are as assured in their depictions of characters young and old, established and unsure, as any written today.

It takes a different set of skills to write short stories, to be able to write convincing, believable characters in so few words. It’s like a very concentrated drink, it needs to be strong and exact because you’re only going to get one sip to really understand the flavor.

There is no doubt that Tom Perrotta possesses that set of skills. Story after story, his characters come alive for their fifteen minutes of fame. Perrotta manages to create that feeling that we’re just getting a glimpse, that there’s a whole life before and after that will continue on without us. It’s the way short stories should be. Sound, solid, able to carry that weight of their existence, past, present and future.

And the heroes of these stories, they’re actually not really heroes at all. They are weak, unhappy, either dealing with the consequences of regrettable behavior or on the way to giving themselves something to regret. A father who hits his son in a moment of disappointment, a teacher who spends her time reading what students write about her online, men who cheat on their wives. Some of them are trying to figure out what went wrong, others are looking for a way back to the people they’ve lost. They’re just people, and with his uncomplicated, yet precise way with words, Perrotta makes us want to reach out and give them a hand.

I read Perrotta’s “Little Children” a while back, and I remember being struck by how straightforward, I guess would be the word, it was; without fancy, over the top attempts to write “true literature”, without metaphors and intricate descriptions that go zooming over your head. It was just a good story with good characters and good writing – simple as that. There’s nothing wrong with being fancy, but sometimes, in between those wines you’ve never heard of and cheese whose name you can’t pronounce, all you need is a good old grilled cheese sandwich and a Coke.

However, in the case of Nine Inches, some of the stories are better than others. While leaving a story unresolved is not necessarily a bad thing, it needs to be done in a certain way. Not all of them manage to pull it off. In some cases, we’re left with the after-taste of… pointlessness. There are a few places where the quality of the writing overpowers the actual story-line, which creates an awkward situation. It feels as if Perrotta had some great ideas he couldn’t figure out how to wrap up, which creates a bit of a mess and takes the entire collection down a few notches.

I think it would be fair to say that despite the weak points, Nine Inches still manages to pull it off, mostly due to Perrotta’s writing abilities and a few gems that make up for the rest. For fans of the short story genre it’s a nice, quick read, with a cup of hot chocolate in bed. For those who read in order to write, much can be learned from Perrotta’s style, his easygoing way with words and, most of all, his ability to put on a full-fledged show for every one of his tales, however long they may be.

]]>https://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2018/01/20/nine-inches-stories-by-tom-perrotta/feed/0nine incheshadasnYear In Review: 2017https://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2018/01/02/year-in-review-2017/
https://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2018/01/02/year-in-review-2017/#commentsTue, 02 Jan 2018 20:24:43 +0000http://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/?p=3114Hello, folks. Another year gone, time for new goals to fail and new resolutions to forget about. A clean slate. But first – a quick flashback.

This year I technically failed my reading goal. I actually stopped going onto Goodreads in order to avoid their constant “You are nine books behind!” shaming. I had to overcome a broken ankle, a crazy exam, but more importantly – really long books. Like, reeeeally long. In 2016 I read 24 books that totaled to about 9200 pages. In 2017 I read 16 (!!) books that totaled to about 8500 pages. That’s an average book length of 572 pages (because, as we all know, Goodreads doesn’t only like shaming, they also like providing you with very detailed statistics about everything you do). That’s a difference of eight books between the two years but only 700 pages. Allow me to be impressed. Sixteen is a new low for me, and one I hope to never sink down to again, but if you go for sixteen, at least do it with style, ya know?

So what did we have?

MOST POPULAR – THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO

The most popular book I read in 2017, according to Goodreads, was The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson. This was actually a second-take on one of my abandoned books from 2012. I still had the five year old bookmark in this time, which is how I discovered that I had given up on it about fifteen pages before shit started to go down. Lesson learned? We’ll see.

Thanks to my loser bones, I spent the summer of 2017 under de facto house arrest. It was almost impossible to get down to the cafe on the corner of the street, and required lots of help and crutches, but to get to Whistle Stop all I had to do was figure out where I left my book. For an entire week I had a new home, new friends and a whole new family. When they disappeared, all of a sudden, I felt something in that weird way where your brain and your heart aren’t sure what to do with this mixed up reality and fiction situation. Sometimes you finish a book and you know that it’s never going to get much better than that. Thank you, Fannie Flagg.

I am a stubborn person, so when it turns out the entire world loves a book that I absolutely hated I re-read it to figure out what went wrong. And the conclusion is that, in any case, it’s a bit too late. The Neverending Story is a children’s book. It’s colorful and wild and is probably the equivalent of sending your imagination to the gym, but I was still relieved when it was over. I can’t go back in time, so I guess we’ll never know. Surprisingly though, I must admit I’m proud of the review I managed to put together. I had my book-critic glasses on, which led to some interesting conclusions. Maybe I’ll get it for my future kid, see what they think. Maybe it’s a genetic thing.

PERSONAL ACHIEVEMENTS

1. War and Peace

This year I completed the normal, average, slightly lazier than others human equivalent of climbing Mount Everest (after making it halfway up last time and then sort of just sitting down on the snow and pretending like I was just taking a break. A two year break). It was tough, it was challenging, it was an actual effort at times – but I did it. I sort of couldn’t believe it for a while afterwards. It gave me an immense sense of pride. If you’re ever looking for a good ego-boost… believe me. This is the way to go. Since this is the part where I get to brag a bit (personal achievements, let me have this), feel free to check out my Reading War & Peace: One Woman’s Journey to Healing a Broken Leg series. There are some useful tips for anyone thinking of having a go at it, some useful websites and things I learned along the way. I tried my best to make a three month long battle against a book about aristocratic Russia in the 19th century during the Napoleonic Wars entertaining. I think it went well.

2. A Song of Fire and Ice

About five years after I said I’d do it, I finally finished the series. And boy, did I love it. I was expecting them to be tiring, with ridiculous Old English and weird medieval terms but they turned out to be fun and exciting and even funny sometimes. Also, the amount of title drops. Damn. I must admit it was hilarious to see people’s reactions every time I pulled one of these brick- I mean books out of my bag. And, of course, it was so… odd when it ended. I spent six months immersed in this world and then poof- it was over. Took a minute to get over the shock. And now? We wait. (and a link to the greatest scene in movie history from Logan Lucky. Someone pass it on to Mr. Martin.)

3. Hebrew

This year I read more Hebrew than I usually do. Reading in Hebrew always slows me down because I enjoy it less, but it doesn’t have to be this way. One of the reasons I completely failed my goal for the year was because I switched to reading in Hebrew in August and got stuck. You may be wondering – how exactly is that a personal achievement then? My point is that I still did it. I read. I pulled through. I chipped away at this mental barrier I have against reading in Hebrew. There’s still a lot of it left, but that’s okay. I’ll just have to keep on going.

THIS

I brought this blog back to life. In July, three years after my last piece, I posted a book review. It was an idea that had been hanging around the back of my mind, waiting for the rest of my body to decide to do something about it. And it finally did. I enjoy sharing my thoughts, I enjoy the challenge of expressing them, I enjoy the writing and the humour and yes, the idea that someone else likes it too. I can say, without a doubt, that this thing here is what pushed me past the War & Peace finish line. It gave me a sense of commitment, like someone else was watching. So, bottom line, I’m so happy to be back, even though I’m still working on the being consistent part of it. I need to get back into shape and figure out where I’m going, but that’s part of the fun. Hope you’ll stick around.

AND, FINALLY: NON-COMMITTAL RESOLUTIONS SO WE DON’T FEEL TOO BAD WHEN WE FAIL THEM ALL

Buy less.

Remember that idea of not buying books and reading through all of the ones I already own? Yeah, well, we’re dragging its limp body with us into 2018. May the Lord be with us.

2. Classics.

I’ve always had a fear of classics. Long ones, short ones – everything. What if I don’t get it? What if I discover I’m an idiot? But then I read War & Peace and realized that after that, it’s all just child’s play. (It can really do wonders for you, that book. I swear.) So, I want to read more of them. (And maybe another review series? Hmmm.)

3. Post more.

I didn’t come back to life for nothing. As I said, I need to get it together and figure it out. There’s still a bit of rust, and every once in a while you hear a creak or squeak and start wondering where it came out of and should we get that checked and are we all going to die, but we’ll work it out.

“I warn you,” said the funny-looking little man with the red beard, “I’m here to sell this caravan of culture, and by the bones of Swinburne I think your brother’s the man to buy it.” Christopher Morley’s unforgettably weird classic tale of adventure on a traveling bookstore called Parnassus, drawn by a steed called Pegasus. Not to be missed.

Miss Helen McGill lives on a farm with her brother Andrew. Everything is going great- until Andrew becomes an author. It starts with one book of his being published, and soon Miss McGill finds herself running the farm on her own, as her brother focuses on his new career. “He hardly ever looked at the ears Roebuck catalogs any more, and after Mr. Decameron came to visit us and suggested that Andrew write a book of country poems, the man became simply unbearable.”

One day a strange little man shows up with a wagon full of books, wanting to sell them to Andrew McGill. He’s been travelling around the country to introduce the simple folks to literature but now he wants to write a book about his travels, so he needs someone else to take over for him. Miss McGill realizes that if Andrew ever hears about this, she’ll never see him again, so on a whim she decides to buy the wagon herself and go on an unplanned vacation.

Thus begins a very entertaining adventure, with Miss McGill as the star, along with a dog, a horse and the strange little man. If you’re looking for a gripping plot – this is probably not the book for you. However, if all you need is a pleasant little tale with a few surprises and a crew of amusing characters – go right ahead. An interesting concept, a few laughs and a sweet ending – the best companion for a winter’s cup of chocolate milk.

I think the greatest aspect of the book is that, despite its simplicity, it manages to touch on one important point – that being the age-old question: Is it better to read simple, mass-marketed, maybe even badly written literature than to not read at all? You see, my idea is that the common people – in the country, that is – never have had any chance to get hold of books, and never have had any one explain what books can mean. It’s all right for college presidents to draw up their five-foot shelves of great literature, and for the publishers to advertise sets of their Linoleum Classics, but what the people need is the good, homely, honest stuff – something that’ll stick to their ribs – make them laugh and tremble and feel sick to think of the littleness of this popcorn ball spinning in space without ever getting a hot-box!” Christopher Morley writes.

When Twilight came out, I remember how many people complained about such terrible literature spreading like wild-fire. None of these people ever stopped to consider that Twilight, even with its awful story and not the greatest writing, got a lot of teens to start reading. In an age where we have a phone-computer-TV in our back pocket, that’s no easy feat. A teenager who picked up a copy of Twilight has a better chance of finding themselves reading Shakespeare ten years later than one who never even tried.

Through his characters, Morley manages to express the idea that reading should be for everyone, and everyone can find something to read that’s relevant to their life, regardless of whether they’re an English professor or a simple man on a farm.

“‘Lord!’, he said, ‘when you sell a man a book you don’t sell him just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue – you sell him a whole new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by night- there’s all heaven and earth in a book, a real book I mean.'”

One hundred and forty two pages of laughs, love and life with a simple, honest and important message. What more does one need?

“Many people start to read War and Peace for the same reason as others climb Mount Everest: because it’s there.” – Johanna Trew

Two and a half years ago I started my way up the mountain. After four months I set up camp and sat down, refusing to get down but not trying to continue. Three months ago I quickly packed up my stuff, jogged my way back to base camp and then started my way back up. Two and a half months after that I finally settled down on the tip, slightly confused because of a certain second epilogue, but with a smile on my face and an immense feeling of pride. The kind that lasts for like a week straight, unwavering, painting the world a very attractive shade of pink. It was fabulous.

Let’s be real here. Many of us decide to read War & Peace because we want to feel special, like we’ve achieved something awe-inspiring. It’s much easier than running a marathon, with an emotional reward at the end. And you can eat while doing it.

War & Peace is not something I’d put on a summer reading list. I wouldn’t recommend taking it to the beach. I wouldn’t recommend taking it to the park. Frankly, I wouldn’t recommend taking it anywhere unless you have a backup physical therapy appointment for your back. I actually did read it in a McDonald’s once, eating fries and ice cream on a Friday night, but that’s another story.

A one thousand page tale about 19th century Russian aristocracy during the Napoleonic Wars? Probably not the most exciting description ever. Most people actually refuse to believe me when I tell them it turned out to be good. Maybe even a bit more than good. I think the term “life-changing” can only be applied to experiences many years after they’ve happened, so we’ll have to hold up on that one, but Important Life Event seems reasonable for now. More than just being able to say I’ve done it, I feel like I finally managed to commit to something and follow it through. It even turns out to be relevant in conversation from time to time (and not just to show off). I’m also extremely pleased with my weekly posts, which, if I may say so myself, are well-written and thoughtful and, dare I say it, even entertaining. I’ve also managed to bring this blog back from the dead, hopefully for good this time.

And another thing. I think I’m on my way to curing my classics-phobia. I now recognize names of translators, read translation recommendations before considering new books, and even have my own preference (how fancy is that, huh?) On my way back down from the peak I stopped by a bookstore and got Anna Karenina and Crime & Punishment. And I wasn’t even slightly scared. After you’ve climbed Mount Everest everything else seems like a hill, at best. Suddenly there are so many books I want to read; so many books I’ve avoided for years suddenly seem within reach. It’s exhilarating.

War & Peace was possible because I was realistic, and that’s something I would recommend to anyone planning to try this out. It’s a “project”. It’s something you “tackle”, something you need to “work on”. Not the usual terms we use for describing the average reading experience. But if you fully commit, you’re set for one hell of a ride. Funny and sarcastic. Sad and scary. Disappointing and surprising. Sometimes you want to just want to reach into the pages and give a little Russian aristocrat a hug, sometimes it’s more of a punch-’em-in-the-face kind of feeling. Every once in a while someone dies. You find yourself cheering on the perfect couple, yelling at them as they destroy their relationship, yelling at others for just being idiots in general. You feel sort of like a parent, watching them as they figure it all out for themselves.

It’s the best way to learn history, because no Wikipedia page can convey the feeling of losing at Austerlitz, of chasing the French on their way out, of standing on a deserted street in Moscow, watching the flames light up the horizon. I’ve lain down on a battlefield, looking at the sky, waiting to die. I’ve packed up our family’s belongings, forced to leave home as war breathes down my neck. I’ve looked Napoleon straight in the face.

It’s been a pleasure sharing this journey with you all in our own little one-man-show book club. It kept me going, knowing that quitting would mean admitting defeat, not just to me but also to the Internet, and no one ever wants to do that. More than just being pleased at having this sort of… travel journal, I enjoyed having to actually think about it all, to work out my opinions and thoughts, to truly understand this experience and immerse myself in it, and not just hike along with my head down, eyes firmly fixed on my boots (or cast, in this case). I hope you all enjoyed it just as much as I did.

My lateral malleolus is whole again; War & Peace is shelved as “read”. What more is left? I’m toying with the idea of season two: Reading Anna Karenina: One Woman’s Journey to Healing A Now Not Broken Leg From Possibly Another Surgery to Remove the Plate and Screws Inserted During the First One, but we’ll see about that.

I would sign off with a “farewell and thanks for all the fish”, but that’s from a different story, so instead I’ll leave you with a pretentious Nicholas Rostov being me during these past two months.

“He would sit in his study with a grave air, reading – a task he first imposed upon himself as a duty, but which afterwards became a habit affording him a special kind of pleasure and a consciousness of being occupied with serious matters.” [pg. 904]

A witty philosophical murder mystery with a charming twist: the crack detectives are sheep determined to discover who killed their beloved shepherd.

On a hillside near the cozy Irish village of Glennkill, a flock of sheep gathers around their shepherd, George, whose body lies pinned to the ground with a spade. George has cared devotedly for the flock, even reading them books every night. Led by Miss Maple, the smartest sheep in Glennkill (and possibly the world), they set out to find George’s killer.

Sometimes I like to ignore bad recommendations. It’s an annoying habit best phrased as “I want to see for myself”. These ventures usually end in one of two ways – everyone was wrong or everyone was right. Three Bags Full falls somewhere in between.

I borrowed my copy of Three Bags Full from a relative. After not getting around to it for an entire year, I asked if they wanted it back. They didn’t. A few years previously it was basically handed out for free at a major book event in the city. Later on it turned out my mom had quit reading it in the middle. So, naturally, when I decided it was time to start reading a bit of Hebrew for a change, I chose to go for a rough start. So did the book itself.

George Glenn’s sheep start off their day by finding their shepherd impaled in the middle of the meadow. As they stand there one sheep says that he was never a very good shepherd, which leads to a discussion about which qualities make a great shepherd great. Having solved that question they are all about to disperse, when Miss Maple, the smartest sheep in Glenkill, suddenly asks them if they don’t want to know why he died. “He died because of the spade,” another sheep says. “If you had such a heavy metal object stuck inside you you wouldn’t stay alive either. No wonder he’s dead.”

Thus starts a sheep murder mystery story, with some fantastic sheep and some not so great murder mystery story. Leonie Swann’s anthropomorphic sheep are absolutely wonderful. Their naivete and general cluelessness about the human world lead to lots of confusion (for them) and lots of laughter (for us), whether it’s when they attend a funeral and find out humans have gardens for dead people or when they hear someone say that when George’s will is read to the village it will all finally come out, and plan to go to the reading to figure out what this “it” is and see it when it finally appears. The dialogue between the sheep itself is also fantastic. For example, when Miss Maple points out the importance of the spade and asks the flock what they think of when they think of spades, one sheep replies “Of spades, of course.” Another sheep says she thinks of barley. A third sheep asks why. And the answer? “Why not? I think about barley a lot.” It’s smart and witty and funny. Who needs anything more?

Hopefully no one, because there isn’t much else. The human characters are boring, the story is way too slow, and it doesn’t start getting interesting until page 170. (Another one of my questionable habits is not dropping books in the middle, which leads to the ability to even know what happens in a book that “doesn’t get interesting until page 170”.) Some of it was actually enjoyable, especially when it came to figuring out what obvious, familiar human behaviour that we all understand the sheep are currently trying to interpret, but the writing was very hard to understand at times, and some of it was just plain dull. There are some amusing twists near the end, but by then most readers will probably already be waiting for their “Who killed George Glenn?” Google search to load. In my humble opinion, if reading a novel and its Wikipedia summary lead to the same degree of satisfaction, we’ve got a problem.

At the end of the day, Three Bags Full had an outstanding cast with a mediocre storyline. For proficient readers with lots of patience, the sheep make up for everything else, providing a well written comedy. For those who need their books to have a gripping plot, maybe not.

]]>https://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2017/09/30/three-bags-full-a-sheep-detective-story-by-leonie-swann/feed/0glenkillhadasnglenkillBest Dostoyevsky Translation?https://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2017/09/24/best-dostoyevsky-translation/
https://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2017/09/24/best-dostoyevsky-translation/#respondSun, 24 Sep 2017 22:30:26 +0000http://bookbugsbite.wordpress.com/2017/09/24/best-dostoyevsky-translation/I have not forgotten about my last W&P post, don’t worry. I’ve just started a new job recently and it’s a bit difficult to get around to. However, my success has awakened something inside of me, which brings me on to the big question up top: Which English Crime and Punishment translation is most recommended? I have the Garnett one but my weekend of Internet research seems to disagree. In case it matters, I read Louise and Alymer Maude for W&P and it seemed fine.

It’s a wrap, folks. I finished the book on Friday, and then it took me a couple of days to get over the shock. I’d technically been reading this book since 2015 because I’d never really admitted to myself that I had quit, so for the past two years I’ve had it shaming me through my “currently reading” Goodreads list. And now it’s over.

So seven years into the future everyone has gotten over all the dead people and half of their kids are named after them. Nicholas (who obviously didn’t listen because clearly none of them have been listening to me) married Mary, and to my surprise they actually turned out to be the best couple in the entire novel. Relatively respectful, caring and mindful of each other. Natasha and Pierre also got married, and while it sounds like Natasha is a great mother it pretty much seems like her well-developed character sort of dwindled down to being Pierre’s other half. Well, we’ve already discussed Tolstoy’s lovely portrayal of women so that’s not much of a suprise. The countess is slowly dying, and who can expect more from a woman who lost both her husband and youngest son in such a short period of time. Sonya sounds more like a piece of furniture than a person, as she whiles away her life, lonely and alone, in the shared Rostov household. I definitely would’ve preferred more story time versus the impossibly complicated historical science theories that came afterwards, but, all in all I feel like Tosltoy did finish things off nicely, leaving us with a good idea of what ended up happening with everyone.

As for the epilogues themselves. Well. To do them justice, I think we need to discuss each one seperately, otherwise it’s really unfair to the first one, that was actually pretty pleasant. There were a few philosophical chapters that were interesting and easy to understand. In general, most of Tolstoy’s musings throughout the book were pretty reader-friendly. Sometimes it did take a second read-through to figure out what was going on but it was always fun to follow once you got the hang of it. As for the plot part of the first epilogue, as I mentioned above, I think it was a fair way of ending things for us, as in, we got the reward we deserved for finishing this neverending story. With some sexism, of course, but we’ve already gotten used to that, haven’t we?

And then there’s the second epilogue. No. Just… no. I feel like Tolstoy decided to (ab)use the fact that we were already so close to the end that we’d all say “ah, might as well finish it” to pressure us into reading whatever the heck was going on there. I didn’t want to feel as if I was just powering through for the sake of saying I’d read it, so eventually I did manage to understand what he was trying to say, but I had to read every sentence more than twice. It was kind of ridiculous. Afterwards I read my mom a random paragraph out loud and her face at the end was what you’d draw to accompany the phrase “wat.” in a dictionary. Embarrassed laughter mixed with pure fear. I feel like even though there were some good ideas, and the topic as a whole – in short: mankind’s free will and its relation to the progress of history – was fascinating, by the end I was just exhausted. (If you really want to know more, check out the analysis and summary I found on Themester’s “War and Peace” Book Club.) I’m sure I’ll think about it some more and read about it some more and eventually reach the conclusion that the second epilogue was JUST BRILLIANT and FANTASTIC and GENIUS, as always happens to me, meaning I form a very clear negative opinion of something and then read too much about it and change my mind, but for now you all deserve my initial, no bullshit reaction which was a simple “no thanks”. Yelled out loud. From the rooftop. With a megaphone.

So that’s that. Two and a half months ago I had a gigantic book in my hands and a cast on my leg, and now here we are, one surgery later, cast free and with a cane in hand instead. As promised, I will be posting one last War and Peace journey post, covering the entire experience as a whole, some time between now and next Tuesday. Thanks to everyone who’s been following so far. This commitment, right here, is the main reason I managed to make it through to the other side. (It only took about four more weeks than my initial plan, but no one except you has to know that.)

Two weeks ago I teased an Andrew tribute post and he died, so I refocused my energy on Kutuzov. And… now he’s dead. Leo? Are you there? Got yourself a little WordPress? Also, what’s with the Game of Thrones business going on? Prince Bolkonski x2, Helene, Kutuzov, Petya. I mean, there really were a bit too many characters, but is this the best way to go about solving that problem? Can people still die in an epilogue?

And yes, if you had a double-take at that last sentence – you read correctly! WE’RE DONE-ish. I read fifty pages today, which might not sound like much, but with this book and my level of laziness, it’s a record-shattering achievement. Now we only have the two epilogues left, which I recently read a very angry Goodreads review about, basically recommending to just slice off that bit and burn it, so that should be interesting.

The past week was mostly a very detailed description of the French leaving Russia, and Tolstoy’s historical analysis and musings. Or, to sum up about 100 pages, Kutuzov was an unrecognized genius, Napoleon wasn’t (unrecognized or a genius), and the minute the French army started falling apart in Moscow they were done for, and any other intervening on the Russians’ part was unneccessary and did not or could not change or affect the course of history in any way other than what ended up happening. Tolstoy actually works out some fascinating military science theories he has over the course of books Fourteen and Fifteen. Even if you haven’t ever read War and Peace, and don’t plan on doing so, I would highly recommend even just reading the first two chapters of Book Fourteen. There are some unexpected variables in there (yes, the scary math kind), but it’s all explained in such simplicity that you can’t help but fall in love with history, and with the beauty and logic of it all. If history was taught the way Tolstoy spoke of it, we’d all be much more educated, much more understanding of ourselves and the world. I don’t think it’s too dramatic to say that humanity itself might very well have evolved into a much better place than the one we’re drowning in today.

I’ve also been thinking this past week about how weird it is to find myself sympathizing with the Russians, falling in love with this country, when in reality if I glance up from the book and into a newspaper, well, things are very different. It’s like the idea of Russia has become this disconnected thing for me – there’s Tolstoy’s Russia, and then there’s the rest of history all the way up to 2017, and the two don’t conflate, like some sort of alternate realities. There’s also the fact that we’re all so used to reading history from the side of the “enlightened”, which usually just stands for Western European, and suddenly we’re in Moscow, not Paris, and when I say we I see Pierre and Natasha, Dokholov and Denisov, our army and our people. And then I think of present day Russia and freak out. I wonder what Tolstoy would think. Not just of Russia, but of everything he missed out on. Just imagine Tolstoy-written historical fiction of the two world wars he didn’t get to see.

I came into this plan with an embarrassing amount of knowledge regarding the Napoleon Wars, and also geography in general. I had this whole plan to open up maps, read up on history, etc. etc., and while I definitely did some of that (I highly recommend understanding the layout of 1800s Europe, and also Book Drum, the most useful, simple, and fun War and Peace reading companion I could possibly imagine), in the end what I’ll remember is not the dates I read on Wikipedia or in the intro to the book. I’ll remember Nicholas Rostov in Schon-Gabern. I’ll remember Andrew Bolkonski in Austerlitz. I’ll remember Pierre Bezukhov in Borodino. I’ll remember the empty streets of Moscow, the fires, and how we chased the French away, as the world turned white around us.

Before I go, it’s time for my weekly wish (which so far have led to the exact opposite, but I haven’t lost faith). I read an article last week about a Japanese princess who is going to give up her royal status to marry a commoner. I assume both you and Sonya don’t read Vogue.com, Nicholas, so I’ll just link it right here for ya. You get me? Don’t mess it up.

Next week is going to be the last “partial” review. I will be posting a finale post sometime after that, discussing the book as a whole. If you have any questions or ideas you want me to address, let me know!